


Political Animals

by defractum (nyargles)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 06:02:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2417657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyargles/pseuds/defractum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm a White House photographer," says Grantaire, pushing the box of cupcakes towards her. "It's my job to take pictures of the President."</p><p>"It's your job to take pictures of <i>White House affairs</i>," corrects Éponine, taking a cupcake and narrowing her eyes at him at the same time, just to let him know that she is not feeling sufficiently appeased, even by red velvet cream cheese cupcakes.</p><p>-</p><p>Political AU where Enjolras is the President and Grantaire is a photojournalist assigned to the White House.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Political Animals

**Author's Note:**

> A [short prompt fill](http://defractum.tumblr.com/post/99380166400/for-the-giveaway-thing-exr-political-au-that) for [butnewyorkcares](http://butnewyorkcares.tumblr.com/), for my fic giveaway.

Grantaire hates politics. Which is funny, because he's just been permanently assigned to the White House after subbing for Courfeyrac for six months paternity leave.

It is, perhaps, a step up from talking to angry residents about wild animals, and then lying in wait for hours hoping for a picture, but at least there, Grantaire knew what he was doing. A fox digging up flowerbeds in local news is a fox digging up flowerbeds. On the other hand, a fox digging up flowerbeds in national political press is probably a metaphor for class divides. _And_ there are no photographs of actual foxes.

So yes. Grantaire hates politics. He was supposed to leave, but then Courfeyrac loves paternity leave so much that he's decided to be a stay-at-home dad for now, and this _is_ technically a promotion.

"You are allowed to take pictures of things _other_ than the President," says Éponine, flicking through his latest reel for something usable. There are a hundred pictures, and probably eighty are of Enjolras.

"I'm a White House photographer," says Grantaire, pushing the box of cupcakes towards her. "It's my job to take pictures of the President."

"It's your job to take pictures of _White House affairs_ ," corrects Éponine, taking a cupcake and narrowing her eyes at him at the same time, just to let him know that she is not feeling sufficiently appeased, even by red velvet cream cheese cupcakes.

Grantaire rolls his eyes. "Trust me, Enjolras is not having any affairs. He's got a stick so far up his own arse that – "

"You fuckface," says Éponine. "You know what I mean."

He does. Grantaire just pulls a face, because he means well. It's just that when he's in the same room as Enjolras, he kind of forgets about taking pictures of other people. He's actually already hidden half the files from Éponine, because she doesn't need to know that Grantaire took almost 200 photos of the President in under three hours, doing nothing much but make a short toast and then eat.

"Why," asks Éponine, "is there a picture of Enjolras's lower half from under the dining table?"

Grantaire has no idea. "You said you wanted every angle," he says instead. She grabs yesterday's paper, and smacks him over the head with it. "Ow! Consider it a commentary on his choice of socks or something."

"Why would I – never mind. You're hopeless. And obvious. And he's going to notice," says Éponine, waving a finger at him.

"I know," says Grantaire. "And I'm fairly sure he has." He squints meaningfully at her.

It takes her longer than it should, but then – Grantaire is fairly sure that this is not the usual kind of gossip he brings her. "Grantaire!" Éponine hits him again with the newspaper. "Grantaire, are you having an affair with the President?"

"It's not an affair, he's not _married—_ " He gets cut off because Éponine keeps hitting him with the damn newspaper and Grantaire can't help but grin because she was right – he's hopeless, and so very obvious.

"Is the stick up his arse _yours—_ "

"Éponine!" It's Grantaire's turn to cut her off, before whispering, "Oh my God. Yes. Yes, it _is_. Oh my God, I'm the stick up the President's arse." He stares at her for a moment before they both dissolve into hysterical laughter.

"So what," says Éponine, the next day's issue completely forgotten even though they still need to pick a photo before it goes off to print, "you climb under the table during the charity dinner and suck him off?"

"No!" squawks Grantaire, going red. "I – okay, that picture? I think I dropped the camera and it went off. I'd never do something that ridiculous in public."

"Says the person who nearly got himself thrown into secret agent prison by climbing the outside of the White House," says Éponine, taking another cupcake.

"It's a really good view," says Grantaire. "I got some great shots." Éponine just levels a look at him, and Grantaire sobers up. "It's not like that. You know? It's not a – a fling."

Éponine puts her cupcake down. "Oh, Grantaire. How long?"

"Erm," says Grantaire. "Since I've had an embarrassing and obvious crush on him?" He cringes slightly. No one over the age of twenty-five should reasonably be still calling it a crush. "Probably about half an hour into that press conference on nuclear weapons."

"That was your first day."

"Yep."

" _And_?"

"And what?"

Éponine raises her newspaper again, now thoroughly battered. "Stop being obtuse. There's a lot between falling head over arse for the President, which is probably something you have in common with thousands of teenagers by the way, and falling _into bed_ with him."

" _And_ , he liked me back." Grantaire figures it's probably easier to just show her, so he plugs his personal UBS stick into the computer, clicks on the right folder and waves his hand, as if to say _voilà_.

The photos are in chronological order, and they show Enjolras at a variety of functions. There are a couple where he looks taken aback, staring straight into Grantaire's camera; a couple with frowns and obviously annoyed expressions. There's an entire series of Enjolras rolling his eyes, like an old-fashioned flick book. They move into bemused smiles, and then genuine smiles, the lopsided ones that the press goes crazy over because they show off his dimple. It's a catalogue of Enjolras softening towards Grantaire, obviously getting to know him better and finding his wit amusing instead of attacking, as chronicled by Grantaire's camera.

"And, that's about it," says Grantaire, moving forward, but Éponine's already clicked onto the next picture.

"OH MY GOD MY EYES," she shrieks, and gleefully carries on, fending Grantaire off with one arm as she uses the other to click through Grantaire's _more personal_ pictures of Enjolras, taken only in the last week, when they'd finally, finally acquiesced to see where this thing between them led.

Grantaire wrestles her off the chair entirely and sits on her as he closes the folder and yanks his USB stick out. He's fairly sure his face is steaming from the heat it's emanating right now. "Oh my _God,_ Éponine."

"So," says Éponine, slightly muffled from where her face is smushed into the carpet, "can we talk about the size of the stick up _your_ arse, or is that—"

Grantaire tries to smother her with the rumpled newspaper.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for political inaccuracies. I'm not American, I have no real idea how your government works. My information on American politics comes from watching Scandal...


End file.
